


Back Again

by DickBaggins



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blow Jobs, Drinking, Drug Use, First Time, Implied Castiel/Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Multi, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Time Travel, Underage Sex, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-22
Updated: 2017-01-22
Packaged: 2018-09-19 05:49:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9421295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DickBaggins/pseuds/DickBaggins
Summary: Castiel likes to squander his time-travel powers on watching select cuts of the Winchesters unawares. His favourite is New Year's Eve, 1999, but this time someone else is already watching the show.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bloodandcream](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodandcream/gifts).



> For Christy for being her lovely beautiful supportive self, and also my one and only patron.

 

Castiel knows most of the ways to slip through the cracks of time. How to observe important bits and pieces. How to stay unseen through it all. It's voyeuristic at best and creepy as hell at worst. Knowing all that never stops him.

He slides between temporal spaces on the regular but there are a few he always ends up at, no matter what. Greedy guilty little snatches of time centered entirely around the Winchesters, giving him glimpses into a private world he shouldn't rightly know about at all. They don't know he knows, and it makes everything all the more complicated.

But he still ends up _here_ anyway.

It's the eve of a new year. It's a motel in the middle of Michigan. It's cold.

Cas starts outside the motel and watches Dean park an unfamiliar car crooked across two or three spaces, stumble out and nearly faceplant on the concrete. He goes inside. Cas follows him this time, but sometimes he starts out in the room, on the couch behind Sam to get the other vantage point.

Something's wrong though. Everything feels heavy, different.

Dean staggers in as usual, throws his keys on the table and steps back, nearly topples over again.

Cas looks at the couch and his breath sticks in his throat. There's someone else there, behind Sam's jagged teenage angles. Someone watching just as rapt as him.

Grey-haired, bright-eyed, dressed plain.

It's Cain. Cain is here, in the same vision of the past, experiencing the same time. His eyes go wide when Cas locks onto him but he doesn't move. One corner of his mouth lifts in a wry expression. Castiel sweeps behind Dean, behind the couch where he passes out, virtually unaware of his brother huddled on the other end.

“If you ask me why I'm here, I'm just going to ask you the same thing,” Cain says, smoothly, turning his attention back to the boys after lingering long on Cas. “But I think I already know.”

Castiel furrows his brow, crosses his arms. There's a deep lull for an hour or so while Sam finishes watching Godzilla vs. Mothra and Dean barely sobers up. Cas makes it pass with the twist of his wrist and Cain chuckles lowly, crowding closer.

“This isn't the first time you've been here.”

Castiel doesn't say.

It _isn't_ , but Cain doesn't need to know that. Doesn't need to know that this, among all things, is one of Cas's favourite places in all of time.

He knows what happens, but the unfolding is always beautiful.

Dean snores himself awake and sits up, blinking blearily around the room.

“Morning, princess,” Sam mutters, pulls his blankets closer around himself and only side-eyes his brother.

“Y'r still here,” Dean manages, rough and slurred. Still shit-faced. His eyes roll and he can't focus. He reaches towards Sam, patting at the bundle of boy under blankets. “Thought you'da left after we fucked.”

Sam shoots him daggers but his face softens once he realizes Dean is still extraordinarily fucked up, even for him. “Dean,” he sighs, and doesn't finish.

“C'mere,” Dean mutters. One hand pats his pants pockets, shirt pockets, jacket before he finds what he's looking for, a half-bent joint and his Zippo. He stuffs it in his slack mouth, the twist between his lips, the wrong way.

Sam takes forever watching it, watching Dean, before he slides over, unfurling from under the heavy blankets. He's all bones and too-long limbs, floppy hair, shy sixteen in a pair of Dean's old pajama pants, too big, sliding down his nothing ass while he perches beside his brother. “Here,” he says, soft, plucking the joint from Dean's mouth and righting it. “I don't think you need anymore of _anything_.”

Dean flicks the lighter but the flame dances away, his eyes unable to match up with his hands and make it work right. “So's I don't getta hangover,” he explains.

Sam rolls his eyes, curls a hand around Dean's and helps him out again. “That's just a myth.”

“Nuh-uh,” Dean grunts, inhaling until the cherry's bright orange. He grabs blind with his other hand, catching on Sam's thigh and pulling him over onto his lap.

There's little to no resistance, Cas always notices. Sam goes right along with it. Would he, if Dean knew what he was doing? Would Dean do this if he was in his right mind?

No matter how many times Castiel watches it, there aren't any answers. He likes it like this, anyway.

“Here,” Dean says to Sam, to the girl he thinks Sam is in his lap, “Y'were wasted too, this'll help.”

Sam's eyes trace the space between them, so much less now that he's sitting in Dean's lap, his skinny thighs evident in the too-loose pants. Cas watches the war first hand but Sam's curiosity wins out as ever. He always frowns, he always takes the joint from Dean, he always settles in his lap. He always takes a long drag and puffs it out to where Castiel stands this time.

The smoke curls between him and Cain. Cas frowns harder for the company, reminding him that this isn't his place. This isn't his secret time, his special memory. This isn't his at all.

“Had a good time, baby,” Dean says, his head rolling back against the couch, face blissed out smiling. “Guess you did too, if you're still here, huh?”

Sam doesn't say anything. He takes another drag and stuffs the joint into Dean's mouth.

There's another few moments of silence. Castiel doesn't fast-forward through it, letting it settle deep and dark over them. Two of them, four of them.

Whatever.

Dean's hands roam over Sam and Sam doesn't shy away from it like maybe he should. Dean gets his hands under Sam's shirt, groping for tits that aren't there. Dean doesn't seem to mind, eyes still lazy-shut, heavy lashes fluttering against the shadows underneath.

Cas holds his breath for what comes next and usually, usually by now he's got his dick in his hand, aching hard with anticipation. He side-eyes Cain and gathers no useful information. So he'll wait. But there's really only one reason to come here.

Under the ratty t-shirt, Dean must hit on Sam's nipples, because Sam still moves the same way when they do it now; he hisses and bows towards Dean, a whine caught in his throat, slipping out quiet through his candy-red lips. Then he sighs and takes the joint back, trying not very hard to twist away.

“Yeah, y'like that,” Dean chuckles and he does it again and Sam doesn't say a thing. “Wanna fuck you again, baby, really wanna but 'm not gonna get it up. Too fucked up, y'know?”

“It's okay,” Sam breathes out smoke and a sigh and probably some relief too, since Dean's hands slide out from under his shirt. It's quick though, because Dean grabs at his waist then, his thighs, palming for his crotch while Sam goes stiff. “Wait, Dean, don't.”

It never works.

Dean's there, squeezing at Sam's very obvious bulge through his pants, a surprised noise forcing through his lips. Sam's face goes tomato-red.

“Jee-sus, when'd you get one'a these? Maybe you oughta fuck me, huh?”

Beside Cas, Cain actually laughs, distracts him from the second or third best part. “He is taking his life in his hands here, isn't he? I take it this hadn't happened before.”

Castiel swallows, doesn't take his eyes off the scene. “No. Dean doesn't remember it, even now.”

“Really.” Cain pauses to watch, eyes narrowing in the dim light, a halo of smoke hovering over all of them. “I would bet anything that Sam still remembers, though.”

Cas knows he does, he's seen it in Sam's eyes, felt the sticky guilt ripple through him on more than one occasion, but he hasn't asked, because he isn't supposed to know. No one is. And now, there's two of them.

“No,” Sam says quietly to Dean, lets his forehead sag against his brother's.

“Alright, well,” Dean starts, “Just wanna let you know my mouth's still very much in play here.”

Sam looks torn, pained, awash in indecision.

Then it happens. Dean gets enough lucidity that his eyes fix on Sam and focus and Cas has seen that frown from the coffee table before, from the other side, from numerous perches.

“Sammy,” he mumbles, only briefly confused, because after that, Sam kisses him hard and a little desperate. And he still kisses Dean like that today, almost every time.

“I often thought,” Cain starts, squinting at the pair, a faraway look in his clear blue eyes. “I often thought that something like this might decrease some of the tension I had. With my brother. But I never...”

Cas swallows, follows his gaze back to the brothers. It's serious now. He never knows if Dean knows it's Sam again or not, but it hardly matters while Sam lounges out long on the couch and Dean shoves between his legs.

“It's not as uncommon as you'd think,” he says, and it sounds spacey in the darkness.

“Do angels get up to this sort of thing too? You've got, what, hundreds of brothers, of sisters?”

“It's not like that,” Cas endeavors to explain. But he can't. It isn't the same and they certainly don't _do_ _this_ but then, he does. Could be he doesn't count among his brethren anymore.

“You're with them now though. The brothers Winchester.” He states it like he knows it, like everyone does. Maybe they do.

Cas nods tight, watches Dean tug down Sam's pants and his too-big dick springs out, slaps against his nearly concave stomach. Cas sucks in a sharp breath at the same time as Dean even though Cas has seen it before, in this context and in many, many others. It's so out of place on that skinny little body, framed by razor hips, dappled with jittery blue light from the television.

“God, what the fuck,” Dean slurs, drooping eyes trained on the same space where Cas is looking, where he's sure Cain is looking too. Dean's on it fast. He's done this before and Sam didn't know, wide-eyed with sweet surprise.

“Is he still this good?” Cain asks. It feels like he's closer now or maybe he was always shoulder to shoulder with Cas.

“Better,” Cas sighs out, and it's kind of amazing because this twenty year old Dean is a champion, lavishing his virgin little brother with some museum quality head.

“I wouldn't mind seeing that.” Cain nudges at Cas's shoulder and maybe it's an invitation and maybe it isn't but Cas learned most of his dick-sucking skills directly from Dean, so. So what the hell.

He's on his knees and unsurprisingly, Cain's hard too under tough duck cotton that buttons apart easy. Dean never takes his time so Cas doesn't either, shoving his nose in steely-gray pubes, licking stripes until he can't anymore, until his mouth feels far too empty, desperate for something to fill him up anywhere, everywhere. He looks up to find Cain's still watching the brothers but Cas doesn't need to now; he knows it all by heart.

By now, Sam's bowing up into Dean's mouth with a white-knuckle grip on his hair. Cas hears him panting sharp and ragged. The joint's still in his hand, still smoldering and spewing a thin line of smoke up and out that shakes apart at the end. Dean laughs with his mouth full and it's a gorgeous noise that thrums heat right through Cas, because he still hears it, he heard it last night and he'll probably hear it again tonight and honestly, he could hear it forever. Maybe he will, considering how things tend to turn out.

Cain's quiet above him, hands fists at his sides. Cas looks up to find him still watching the brothers and he can't blame him for that. It's quite a show.

Cas's favourite.

He's used to more noise when he's got a dick in his mouth, but Cain's quiet intensity is nice too, apropos of him somehow. Not that Cas really knows him. Even when he pops Cain's balls into his mouth, all he gets is a sharp intake of breath, a tremor in his legs that makes Cas cling onto his thighs with both hands, dig into the muscle there.

Dean's doing the same thing on the couch, sucking up both of Sam's balls into his mouth and they can hear that alright, an uneven cry and the couch creaking and Dean laughing again.

They don't have long; it's like, five minutes before Sam spills and Cas is determined to mirror all of that with a few changes, like dragging his own dick out of his pants to stroke off, rigid hard and leaky like crazy, like he always gets when he's here.

“You didn't do this before you met them, did you?” Cain asks, low deep voice blanketing him in the dark. Cas looks up but he's still not looking at him. “They made a pet out of you.”

It shouldn't make Cas glow so much, hearing it, especially with the calm derision evident in Cain's tone but fuck everything, Cas loved being theirs. So he didn't say anything. It wasn't Cain's business, anyway. Instead, Cas focuses on the cock in his mouth and the scene behind him, his own dick in his hand. First time he's had anyone but Sam or Dean (or both) crammed in his mouth but it's nice, interesting, different. Cain tastes different, twitches more, doesn't hurt the sides of his mouth like the brothers do. But he loves it. Maybe he just loves dick.

Something to think about.

Later though, when Sam's not coming apart on the couch, breathing so loud it's audible, every burst of air coupled with a too-high whine. It all matches the sloppy blow job sounds, Dean's mouth - Cas knows from memory – stretching and drooling, a spit-slick mess, so much worse like this when he's fucked up. Maybe better, not worse. Cas can't ever decide.

“You like this,” Cain says above him, but he sounds different now fingers twining into Cas's hair and voice gone high-quiet, like he's having trouble keeping it together. That just pushes Cas harder, especially since he knows what the scene on the couch is like, how close it's getting, how addictive it is to watch.

No surprise, then, that when the sweet sound of Sam coming (loud, breathy, ragged, shocked) fills the room, Cas feels Cain twitch hard and flood his mouth, because by now it's all over Dean's face. He pulls off accidentally and laughs when Sam shoots on his face, so Cas does it too, easing back and blinking up and the rest splats on his lip, his chin, slides down and off in a quickly cooling trickle.

And Cas almost always gets off on dirty stuff like that, on seeing it and doing it and he's jerking off onto the floor, matting up the dirty carpet with his thick load. He looks up and Cain's still looking at the brothers instead, scrubbing a hand through his long hair, over his red face, taking a quick step back so his dick slips out of Cas's grasp. Which is fine, it's _fine._

There's not much else to watch on the couch, as Cas gets up off his knees. Dean passes out again with come on his face, his cheek against Sam's thigh. Sam watches him for too long in the dark, some tortured internal narrative showing heavy on his beautiful boy features.

“Dean doesn't remember,” Cas explains even though he already has, somewhat, doing his pants up, wiping the come off his face and wiping _that_ on his trench coat. “In the morning. It's nearly half a year before they do this again.”

“Top-shelf dysfunction, either way.”

Definitely. But Cas won't say.

Quiet again but for the TV and Sam's heavy breathing. His guilty fingers roam Dean's sleeping face, his thick hair, like he might not get to touch again. Cas wishes he could tell him not to worry, wishes it every time.

“Any other recommendations?” Cain asks, the faintest edge of amusement in his voice and a wry eyebrow arch when Cas looks over.

He has far, far too many.

 


End file.
